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Every evening, just before the streetlights came alive, they would gather outside my gate. First came the brown one with a torn ear. Then the limping black dog. Finally, the smallest, white with muddy patches, always keeping a respectful or suspicious distance until I spoke. “Come,” I would say. That was all they needed. Now they come without invitation. My house has become their home too. I don’t know their names. I never named them myse...
